Finwe's Last Stand
by eschaton37
Summary: "...for Finwe alone had not fled from the horror of the Dark." Short, one-shot. T for violence. Draws on material in History of Middle-Earth vol. X: Morgoth's Ring.


The Shadow enveloped all, and yet it was more than shadow, more than the lack of the Trees' light – blacker than a cloud that blots out the stars in the dark of Middle-earth. It was not an absence of light but a thing unto itself that filled the air and smothered the soul. It blocked not only the sight of the bodily eye but the perception of the spirit, and Finwe stood in doubt. There were shouts of terror, and sounds of panicked flight, but the King must not run from mere night-fears.

Then through the Darkness there were greater sounds, a tread of mighty feet and a scuttling of some horrid thing whose nature Finwe could not guess. Two beings moving in the concealing Dark … so it was not Melkor alone who brought this blight.

Then a voice boomed out like the thunder that precedes the killing bolt, the mad roar of waves upon the Grinding Ice in a storm. "Feanor!" Thrice that name was called, and the echoes of it resounded like the rumbling of the earth in torment. It was indeed the voice of Melkor, stripped of all dissembling kindness. "Come forth and bring me the Silmarils, and perhaps I will spare your kin." Then Melkor laughed, and it was more horrible than his speech.

Finwe spoke boldly, thrusting back his fear. "Feanor is not here! He is in Valmar beneath the eyes of Manwe and Varda, where _you_ would never dare to go. Nor will any of the House of Finwe yield the last of the Light up to Darkness."

"You would dare refuse anything to _me_ – I who walk the Land of Aman in despite of your vaunted Elder King? Look upon me and bow!" The Darkness parted, and Finwe saw between walls as of black fog Melkor's chosen form – like one of the Eldar in shape, but gigantic, with a face crueler than Death. A black spear was in his hand, a vast weapon with a point as long as a sword's blade.

Looking upon that terrible shape Finwe quailed, but he somehow found the courage to stand before it. Drawing upon all the power of his own spirit, he looked Melkor in the eyes. Those eyes burned with a flame like the molten heart of a volcano, and they seemed to pierce his soul and lay bare all his weakness and inadequacy. He swayed and almost fell before their impact, the fallen Vala's will almost a physical force. Horror grew within him, and he felt himself a frail thing fit only to be discarded, his body rotting to foul clay and his soul languishing in darkness at Mandos. He thought desperately of the light upon Taniquetil, trying to cast back the horror of Melkor's Shadow by calling to mind all the brightest and most beautiful things he had ever known. _The twin light of the Trees, the domes of Valmar at the Mingling of the Lights, the stars of Varda, the face of Miriel who is lost._ And it was that last thought that sustained him. _Miriel … lost to Death, to weariness, to the Marring of Arda and of our very flesh. Lost to Melkor!_

Rage filled Finwe, rage such as he had never before known. The Darkness vanished from his sight in the red light of fury. He saw nothing but Melkor – Melkor _in physical form._ All the lords of the Noldor had worn swords almost since Feanor's smithing of them had begun, and Finwe's hand dropped to the hilt at his side. He drew, and Melkor laughed again. "This is foolishness indeed. Do you think to strike the greatest of all the Valar with mere metal?"

Melkor's laughter did the impossible – it stoked Finwe's anger, already all-consuming, to even greater height. Finwe stood there, blade drawn, and shouted with scorn, "So I do! False Vala, will you _deign_ to fight me – linger while Tulkas comes to bind you with chains again, while the wrath of Manwe and Varda seeks you?" A spark of hope, almost of reason, shone even through his rage. He could not defeat the Marrer, of course; but to slow him for what might prove to be critical moments? That was possible.

Then Melkor stepped forward, and the very earth trembled – the base rock of Aman itself shook at the power of the Enemy unleashed. Behind him Finwe could hear the walls and pillars of Formenos groaning.

The fire of the Dark Vala's eyes increased, and Finwe saw his death in the point of that mighty spear. Yet this was _right_ , somehow. His sons safely away; his retinue fled – all others were safe, and he alone would seek vengeance for Miriel, who alone of all in Aman had died. And then he would go to meet her in Mandos.

Finwe's sword swept up; it clashed against the spear-shaft of Melkor. They stood thus for a moment; then Melkor swept the Elven-blade aside with a roar. The sword _heated_ in his hand, burning as if thrust into the hottest forge fire; Finwe's palm charred, and he cried out in agony – then the black spear swept down.


End file.
